


This is getting Dunmer and Dunmer

by ThePoetTree



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Basically all the cast of DAI and more, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), But this is the stupidest, Gen, This is a crack-fic can't you tell, This is not the most ambitious crossover, a dunmer a khajiit and an imperial walk into a chantry, and maybe probably also start a revolution, take over a small kingdom or two, they're probably here to steal shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePoetTree/pseuds/ThePoetTree
Summary: A Dunmer sorceress, a khajiit thief and an disgraced Imperial soldier fall through a hole in the sky. Cassandra has a nervous breakdown. Solas watches his plans go down the drain. Also, someone just robbed the Chantry.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 72





	1. In which the plot starts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a ridiculous, ridiculous fic, but who cares, I'm writing it! I have no extra chapters planned, so updates are going to be highly irregular (schedules? i don't know her). You don't need to be familiar with the original material to read this. Anyway, enjoy!  
> Also, I apologize for the title pun. (no i don't who am i kidding)

Peregrina ‘Perry’ Maximus groaned as she kicked down the door, a gesture promptly followed by a pitiful cry as the warrior realized she’d broken at least two of her toes. Behind her, a Dunmer woman all clad in grey and red sniggered. The third member of their party, a khajiit, rolled his eyes and took a look at her feet. Three toes smushed. Stendarr, that hurt.

The khajiit -light grey fur, half an ear missing, said a few words and her toes healed.

“Typical. You could have waited half a second, I had a spell for that,” the dark elf said. Perry didn’t care. The door was open, which was all that mattered.

“Ri’z had lockpicks, too, friend,” chimed in the Khajiit thief, who annoyingly kept referring to himself in the third person. Perry felt herself blushing, chastised. How was it her fault that she had been taught as she had in the Legion? Besides, it hadn’t hurt _that_ much.

“Whatever. Let’s go.”

On they went.

But where were they going? Let’s stop there a moment, and describe the scene. An ominous door in a snowy landscape: the entrance to an old temple, lost to memory, hidden in the slopes of the Jerall Mountains. And three intrepid adventurers, on an epic quest to-

Wait. No. This can't be right. The dark elf wants a book? The khaajit wants gold? The Imperial soldier is just hired muscle? Pitiful heroes, let me tell you. Let us ignore their foolish motivations and resume our tale.

They proceeded in the darkness silently, carefully, until a great clanking resonated all around them.

“Shut up!” hushed the elf.

“What is this one playing at?” the khajiit hissed. Perry had walked right into a wall at a corner, and fallen down on her ass with great clamour.

The human got back up. Had there been light, the other two could have seen her face red with vexation. “T’s’not my fault! I haven’t got magic eyes, see.”

The elf and the khajiit exchanged a look Perry could not see.

“Oh.”

“Right.”

“We forgot.”

“Sorry.”

The dark elf muttered something, and suddenly Perry could see like in the brighest daylight. The khajiit looked a little sheepish, but the elf mage simply sniffed disdainful and they kept going.

After a little exploring and a little looting, they finally arrived to the main attraction: a large room with a dusty round table in the middle and bookshelves lining the walls and-

“It’s _empty_.” The elf was hovering between anger and incredulity.

“K’sharraj! Someone has already swiped the place!”

Silence fell over their small group.

“Am I still gon' get paid?” Perry asked, which earned her two death glares. Ri’zaadzin’s was not very scary, but Mistress Falven’s send a chill down her spine. Probably the red eyes.

The Khajiit went to search the room for leftover treasure while the dark elf brooded. Perry waited. She did not particularly care about this enterprise at all. All she wanted was some drinking money, and this job had been meant to be quick and easy. Since the Legion had gotten rid of her, she had turned to mercenary work, but in Skyrim, people were always weary of Imperials, so she took what little she could get.

Besides, when Mistress Falven had heard she was not a local, she had offered her double the usual price.

Although, now that Perry thought about it, that large stone slab in the middle of the room looked suspiciously like the sacrificial stones in Deadric shrines. Perry backed away slowly, which the dark elf noticed immediately.

“Oh, relax. No one’s getting sacrificed today.”

“Good to know,” Perry answered, her voice less assured than she would have wanted.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was definitely planning on killing you, but it seems I’ve got one big ingredient missing, so… Lucky you, I guess?”

Then, the dark elf went back to her magical examining of the throne, ignoring her royally. Ri’z, at least, had the decency to throw her an apologetic glance. Perry did not dare ask if she was going to get paid again.

She should have, really. Manwe Falven had a fondness for the gutsy ones, and would most definitely have paid her. Oh, well. No ale for Peregrina Maximus.

Speaking of Manwe Falven, her magic vibrated strangely around the throne, and -Oh, drast! Here comes the plot! Up they fell, our three lousy heroes, up, up, up into green, and black, and empty and light.

* * *

Perry’s head hurt like a Nord had smashed a tankard on it. Not that _that_ had ever happened, of course. She got up from her laying position slowly, checking herself for any broken bone. Nothing. Apart from the giant bruise that would form on her ass and the splitting headache, she was fine. Next to her, Ri’z was looking around wildly.

“We have lost Manwe,” he said, urgency seeping through his voice.

“Not gonna say I’m sad ‘bout that. She was gon' sacrifice me to her dark gods and all.” Perry readjusted her armour. It was not as nice as the one she’d had in the Legion, but it did the trick.

Ri’z hummed. “We will need her to get back to Bruma.”

“Why? Bruma’s just down in the valley.”

The cat smiled, showing his teeth. “Oh, I do not believe so,” he purred. When she prompted him to explain, he simply gestured largely to the world around him. “The plants are unfamiliar to Ri’z. The air is less airy. This one does not like it” He pointed to something above them. “This one does not like _that_.”

Perry swallowed with great difficulty. Up in the sky, far above their heads, the sky seemed to have been split open by green lightning. It seemed like meteors were falling from the... crack? in the sky.

“By the Gods! We need to go back to the city! Protect the civilians!”

The cat looked at her like she was a strange new species of fish. “You ears work, yes? We are quite far from Bruma. This one believes strange magic is at play… Manwe will know more.”

Perry sighed, looking at the crack and at the cat in turn.

“Fine, let’s go find the psychotic elf.”

Ri’z chuckled.

* * *

Manwe woke up on the unwashed floor of a dungeon cell, shackled to a metal board. Disgraceful. She forced herself upright, pain coursing through her body. Her hand. Meridia help her, what was this sorcery? Her hand crackled with green light, the pain drawing a whimper from her. Five soldiers stood around her, swords pointed at her head. Humans. Nords. Her lips rolled in a snarl.

She was going to kill them all. None seemed to move, so she prepared a fireball; Nords were so, so very vulnerable to fire. She’d light up the whole cell, burning them to bits and-

The door opened with a creak. The soldiers stepped back, sheathing their weapons. Interesting. Two women approached. More humans. The more heavily armoured one circled her ominously, and then spoke in a tone that clearly indicated a question. Only problem was, Manwe had no idea what the question was, considering the language the woman spoke was most definitely _not_ Tamrielic. Or even Nordic.

_What in Oblivion?_

The human woman kept talking, in a voice that inspired annoyance more than fear. Manwe remained silent throughout her speech, wondering if lighting might not be more useful. It usually worked wonders on heavily-armoured opponents, due to metal conductivity, and the dung-

The woman took her left hand in hers, and Manwe recoiled at the touch. Ugh, humans. The woman seemed to get angrier when she refused to answer, and the other woman intervened before she could strike her. Barbarians.

Manwe listened to the two women argue. Their language was wholly unfamiliar. Already, she was tiring of this charade, and she had questions of her own. She murmured two words and suddenly, the women’s language held no more secrets to her. Only downside of that spell was its limited lifespan.

“What am I doing here?” she demanded. “Who are you? And what is this place, and this mark upon my hand?”

“You dare ask _us_ questions?” the first woman answered, clearly not knowing it was rude to answer a question with another.

“I dare.” Manwe scoffed, and threw her head back, defiant. “I demand to know what is going on.”

“Do you remember anything? How this began?” the second woman asked. Manwe had to think for a second. This was an interesting question.

“We were in-” The lost temple of Arkay, ready to pillage the whole place “… in the Mountains. I think we fell? I fought something. There was a woman, I think.”

“A woman?”

“What are you?” The two questions came simultaneously, and Manwe took great offence to the second. She glared at the woman who had asked it.

“I am a Dunmer mage, muthsera.” Sarcasm dripped from her lips. “I thought even humans s’wits had the brain space to see that.”

“Did she just insult us?”

“Watch your words, demon!”

“Demon?" Manwe rose an eyebrow. "As far as racist insults go, that’s not a very common one.” Azura, she hated those people. She did not know where they were from, with their strange language and strange armours, but they were humans, and that was already a flaw in her eyes. And that was not even counting the fact that she was their prisoner.

“Did she just-”

The second woman held the first’s arm before she could draw her sword. “Cassandra, we need her. Take her to the rift. I’ll wait at the forward camp with reinforcements.” And with that, she left, leaving Manwe stuck with the first woman. The worst woman.

The translation spell waned while the woman -Cassandra, what a ridiculous name- unshackled her. Manwe did not thank her, resuming her stubborn mutism. The human led her outside, passing guards who stared at her threateningly. Manwe stared back, and actually made one of them tremble. Good.

Outside, tearing reality apart, a sort of gigantic green lighting bolt hung in the sky. While the human did some plot exposition in her language, Manwe asked herself, trepidation rising in her throat.

_Did I do that?_

She looked back at her hand, as green as the crack up above was. _B’Vehk, I did do that!_

_… How do I do it again?_

* * *

The world of Thedas had not realized it yet, but it was in far more trouble than the giant hole in the sky let one believe.


	2. In which Solas meets the plot (and is not happy about it)

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, 78th  in line to the Nevarran throne, had started her week very nicely. Hope for a peace treaty hung in the air of Haven: soon, mages would be back in their Towers and everything in the world would be right again.

And then, of course, everything went wrong. The Conclave: exploded. The Divine: dead. The sky: torn. And, on top of it all, like a rotten cherry on a dung cake, some kind of demon-person-thing had fallen through the Breach, and seemed to be their only hope to fix this disaster.

Surely, things could not get any worse... Could they? (Yes.)

* * *

Manwe did not even try to follow the human’s long strides. She seemed in a desperate hurry, which was simply undignified in the dark elf’s eyes. Manwe walked at a brisk pace, yes, but not so much that anyone could believe that she was late for something. In the village (filled with humans exclusively, by the way), the people had looked at her with fear and anger. It had not bothered her, considering it was also the general way people looked at her back home. As she walked unhurriedly, she wondered about the crack; it was a nice crack, she had to admit. Very artistic, of a splendid, vibrant green colour. It gave the world around a strange and wonderful hue that she could appreciate both from the standpoint of an art collector _and_ the standpoint of a magic user.

She wondered how she did it. Obviously, she had to be the cause of this. Very few humans -mortals- held enough power to be able to achieve such a thing. It was simple biology. Still, she could not remember using a spell, nor did she know of any that would have the effect of _shattering_ reality. Or, well, not to that degree, anyway.

The human woman kept looking back at her and huffing, which only made Manwe slow down, pretending to admire the sights. There were a few dead soldiers littering their road. She felt like she was forgetting something.

Idly, she wondered where she was. She had travelled all around Tamriel (well, sort of), but this land was simply… odd. The language sounded foreign. The garments were unusual. The vegetation looked bizarre. The magic felt singular. The author needed a thesaurus. Even the sky was noteworthy, although that was no fault of its own. Still, it did not help the idea of ‘foreignness’ this place exuded.

The woman (what was her name again?) led her over a large snowy bridge and into a valley where soldiers were huddled behind thrown-together barricades. A flash of pain ran through her hand, sending her on her knees, swearing loudly.

She got back up furious, gritting her teeth. Showing weakness was for humans and children, everyone knew that. Now that she had felt the rush of magic, however, it was now quite obvious to her that she had not in fact caused the tear in the fabric of reality. In fact, the magic did not feel hers, but like a mark, or a brand, or a foreign, living organism under her skin. She considered cutting her hand off.

It’d be a bitch to regrow later.

They kept going, the woman leading the way. Slowly, Manwe figured out that she was being lead _to_ the crack. It made sense. It was not hard to figure out that her hand had something to do with the poor state of reality. She would follow, for now. The feeling of having forgotten something smacked her in the face again. She ignored it.

They crossed another bridge. Clearly, these people loved buildings. Not even good architecture, Manwe thought, like someone who had gone to the ruins of Kemel-Ze more than once for _fun_. As they were halfway across it, the bridge got hit by a green energy ball and exploded. Shoddy construction, that. If humans can’t even build bridges that are impervious to magical destruction, should they even be building bridges at all?

By luck (magic), no debris fell on the elf, and she simply floated down to the ground, unscathed and unbothered. She was halfway through her stream of sarcastic thoughts about mankind’s engineering practises when another ball of green energy hit the ground next to her. An odd creature, tall and skeletal, emerged from it. She looked at it placidly, an eyebrow raised. Fascinating.

The human woman ran in front of her, yelling something, and attacked the creature. Then, another sprouted from the ground right in front of her, shadowed in green light. It went straight for her, and Manwe send herself twenty feet into the air with a well-placed levitation spell, avoiding its overly large claws. Confused, the beast turned back towards the human woman, who was valiantly fighting the first one.

Manwe descended back to the ground peacefully and watched the scuffle. She wished she had a snack.

When the woman came back, barely a scratch on her, she nodded appreciatively. The answer she got was a grunt, and a gesture to follow. They soon arrived to a river, and the woman charged ahead, having spotted more of the creatures. Manwe hung back on the riverside while the warrior fought off three of the monsters. She was skilled, and seemed to know their weaknesses well enough to gain an edge in combat.

When she came back to fetch her, Manwe cast her translation spell -barely a move of her fingers.

“What are those?”

“Demons, coming from the Breach.”

“The Breach?”

“The giant hole in the sky! Were you not listening when I explained it?”

Manwe did not even have the decency to look sorry. “... You called me a demon earlier. Do I seriously look like one of these?” She had stopped walking, now completely offended and ready to burn the impudent human into a pile of ashes.

“I do not know what you are.” If that was meant to be an apology, it needed work. “But I know that we need you.”

“I am a person,” Manwe spat out, bristling at being called a _what_. “My name is Manwe Falven.”

The human woman lowered her eyes, chastised. “Mine is Cassandra.” Stupid name. They resumed walking.

... Ri’z! That’s what-who- she’d been forgetting! That damned khajiit was probably scared out of his wits. And the imperial, too, what was her name? Peggy, Penny? Whatever. She needed to find them.

“Hey, have you seen a Khajiit around? Grey fur, black spots. Half an ear missing, carries a bow and a suspiciously large satchel?

The human blinked at her. “...No.”

Manwe supposed that if they had all fallen from the same place, Ri’z was probably right under the crack-breach-hole. While she speculated, they came across more of the monsters. This time, two of them were translucent beings made of green light, hovering over the ground.

… And were spellcasters. Manwe rose a shield to deflect one of their energy bolts. Very basic, lacking in both flair and power. She killed it with a very big, bold (I’ll show you how it’s done, amateur) fireball, which also took out the other one. The human finished off the last two and pointed her sword at her afterwards.

Manwe frowned and wove her translation spell for the third time. This was getting tedious. If she needed translations that often, she might as well enchant a ring. She still had some soul gems ready to go in her – Her bag! Mephala! She’d lost her bag.

Back in the present, the human was still glaring at her, sword up. “Well, that’s just rude,” Manwe remarked.

“You’re a mage!”

“...Yes. The robes usually give it away.”

The moment floated in the air, until the woman diffused the tension by sheathing her word, sighing. “Well, we need all the help we can get.”

Manwe wondered why this human thought she had any intention of helping.

“We’re getting close to the Rift! You can hear the fighting,” the woman said as she led her up a long flight of stone stairs. It was terribly impractical and unsafe, what with the snow and the ice and the lack of railing. So impractical, in fact, that Manwe had simply opted for light levitation and was walking in the air, barely a few inches above the ground. Much safer this way.

Passing by another broken bridge (seriously?), they entered a ruined courtyard, where a very small human and another, larger human were fighting monsters underneath a small tear in the fabric of reality.

Leaving the fighting to them, Manwe hung back, running some diagnostics spells on the hole. Fascinating. And her hand? Oh, this was interesting. The same magic made up the two, she had been right earlier. The magic in her hand was not her own. In fact, it had the same signature as whatever magic made up the fabric of reality. _Sweet_.

The human man -the taller one- ran towards her when they were done fighting.

“Quickly, before more come through!” he yelled, reaching for her hand. That was, in few words, a Bad Idea. Manwe looked at him and suddenly, he was twenty feet in the air, being hurled back by an impossible force. He landed fifty feet away on a pile of rubble.

Manwe ignored the small human’s crossbow now pointed at her, and the human woman’s raised sword. The hole in reality was much, _much_ more interesting.

She walked up to it, careful to set wards as she approached. Then, slowly, methodically, she worked out the magic that made up the edge of reality -it was easier than it sounded, really. She had a key in her hand, and the frayed edge of the hole gave her a good enough indication of the spell that had been used to create it in the first place. Even without knowing the right incantation or the right movements, she could infer enough to patch up a hole this small.

The magic was foreign, unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Luckily, she had studied the Old Way long enough that she could make some educated guesses. The magic in her left arm was unruly, though, and she had to close it off with a strong barrier. If it kept impeding her own magic, she was _definitively_ cutting her arm off. In barely three minutes, the hole in reality was closed, all traces of it vanished.

“How did you do this?” The human woman demanded, her sword now lowered.

“Brilliantly.” The small human chuckled at her answer. She sniffed. The third human was walking back towards them with a slight limp.

“Could you close the Breach itself?” The human woman asked, hope in her eyes. Manwe looked up.

“That’s a little big. I suppose I could stabilize it.”

“Which means?”

“Put a sort of net over it, preventing any travel from this side to the other, and reciprocally. I wonder what caused the sundering, though. It is clearly not the result of the natural obsolescence of an old spell; it must have been wilfully caused by something. I cannot detect any weakness in the spell in this particular area that would make it susceptible to tearing unprovoked.”

The humans looked at her blankly. Mawe sighed. She should really know better than try to talk magic theory with a bunch of soldiers/peasants. “Yes, I can help.” It did not mean she was going to.

“Good to know. I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” the small human said. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at the woman. Probably some human courting method.

“Manwe Falven.” 

“And I am Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the last human said, bowing slightly. Finally, someone showing her the respect due to her stature. Then, she noticed something.

“You have pointed ears.” Apparently, that was a social faux-pas, because all three humans went very still.

“Well, most elves do,” the definitively-not-an-elf said.

Manwe rose an eyebrow very, very slowly. A mer? This man? Surely this was a joke. He was bald, white as a Nord’s asscheeks and his eyes were far smaller than any Bosmer’s she’d even seen. It took a moment for Manwe to realize that he was probably the result of one of the Altmer’s numerous failed genetic experiments, at which point she felt marginally sorry for him. These prissy fuckers just couldn't stop themselves from meddling with things they really should not, could they?

“Of course you are. My mistake,” she said as respectfully as she could, which was not very.

The not-quite-an-elf seemed to accept her apology, bowing his head once again.

“And what might you be?” he asked. Manwe grimaced.

“Oblivion take me, I’ve already been over this. I am not repeating myself _again_.”

“She’s a Dummer,” the human woman explained.

“Well, whoever you are, it seems you hold the key to our salvation,” the hideous shadow of an elf said, smiling lightly. Manwe snorted. Salvation, her ass.

She was going to find Ri’z, go back to that stupid tomb and find that stupid book. Why was getting stuff from Hermaeus Mora always such a hassle? First, that stupid quest. Then, that stupid cult. Now, this stupid place? The Deadric Prince was probably laughing from on high.

Manwe glared at the green sky. _Asshole._

The small human and the failed experiment would accompany them further in the valley, the human woman decided. Manwe could not care less.

* * *

Solas’ week had started quite nicely: this Corypheus moron had found the orb his spies had kept leaving laying around him (this had taken many, many tries: the magister was remarkably unobservant), and his network of _little helpers_ was finally starting to understand the meaning of ‘discretion’. There was a good flow of information moving in, and soon enough, his plans would start unfolding. Everything was going _great_.

And then, everything went wrong. (He really should have seen it coming)

He’d taken the whole ‘hole in the sky’ situation pretty well, considering. No screaming, no unsanctioned killing of humans to make himself feel better, no crying like a little elfling in his bedroll. He’d even come up with a new plan -a better plan: he would play the harmless apostate, grow his network from the shadows and, somehow (he hadn’t quite figured this part yet), regain his power and his former glory. Yes, everything would be right again.

And then, everything went wrong. Again.

Firstly, their so-called saviour was a weird ashen-skinned, red-eyed, freakishly tall monster-thing. Secondly, it was far, _far_ , more powerful than anyone other than himself had the right to be. Thirdly, he was pretty sure he’d just sprained his ankle in that fall.

No, decidedly, things were not going well.

[We’re going back to Ri’z and Perry next chapter: don’t worry, things are not going well there either]


	3. In which Chancellor Roderick considers retirement

Ri’z did not care for this white and green place. It smelled of pine trees, which made him want to sneeze. There was as much snow on the ground as in Skyrim, which was to say, too much. He was starting to loose feeling in his paws. And of course, there was that hole in the sky from which creatures seemed to be pouring at disquieting speeds.

He sighed wearily. At least, the Imperial had stopped mumbling about curses and elves.

Something fell from the Green Light, or, to put it more accurately, barrelled towards the ground like it held a personal grudge against it. Something upsettingly large, something with grey skin that looked like armour. Something with two horns and way too many eyes, and magic all over its skin. When the creature landed, all its eyes looked at Perry and Ri’z. The creature laughed, a loud belly-deep laughter that would have sent men running for the hills. Luckily, neither Perry nor Ri’z were men.

Ri’z back-flipped behind a tree and shot an arrow at the creature’s head. Peregrina dropped her bag with a swift move of her shoulders and charged with all the temerity of an Imperial soldier. While she was distracting the _something_ with a frankly shrill battle cry, the khajiit opened a small bottle on his belt and dipped an arrow in it. When it hit the creature in its fifth eye, it screaming in pain and rage. Mostly rage. The khajiit smiled, revealing a hint of pointed canines, and drew back his bow again.

At closer range, the Imperial was doing good work, her Legion issued shield holding fast against the creature’s repeated banging. But she was so busy keeping from its blows that she could not get any of her own in, and the light poison Ri’z had coated his arrows with did not really seem to affect the creature.

Ri’z opened another bottle, a nasty melange of canis root, scatheraw and imp stool, with just a dash of salt. He picked a silver-tipped arrow from his quiver, dipped it and loosed it. The creature stilled, instantly paralysed by the poison. Had it been human, it would have dropped dead on the ground. At least, Ri’z now had confirmation that it was not. Sometimes, humans were so ugly it was hard to tell them apart from seven feet tall horned monsters.

Peregrina used the advantage to cut the creature’s right arm vengefully. It took a while, because, no matter how hard she struck, she was struggling to slice through the thick skin. Already, the creature was breaking through the paralysis, its arm still attached, if only by a few shreds of skin and muscle.

It roared at them (Perry roared back. Ri’z figured she had a little Nord blood in her.) and attacked again, raising its arms above its head to strike at Perry. Its arm, still slave to gravity and other strange and ineffable forces of _f_ _i_ _s_ _y_ _k_ , came back to bang it behind the head. The creature fell at Perry’s feet like a stone.

Ri’z blinked calmly, before loosing another poison-coated arrow at the creature’s head. It was easier to finish off the monster, now that it was unconscious. He could not _wait_ to get his paws on the remains.

And so the creature died, never quite sure what had happened. Silence fell back over the snow and Peregrina almost let her shield fall to the ground, her left arm still resonating with the beating she had withstood. Somehow, she felt the fight had ended dishonourably, with the Khajiit simply sticking half a dozen arrows in the thing’s skull.

And now he was cutting off parts of the carcass with a silver knife, which threatened to turn her stomach.

“Do you have to?”

The khajiit looked at her affronted and launched into a lengthy and smug explanation of something. Peregrina stopped listening at the words ‘alchemical properties’. She was a warrior, by the Nines, not an herb picker. Making flower bouquets for her last girlfriend _did not_ count (it did).

After Ri’z finished to harvest whatever body parts he wanted, they were off.

Their next encounter was not with strange and exciting new creatures, but with a group of humans. They were wearing absurdly shiny armour and tried to kill them, which both Ri’z and Peregrina agreed was rather uncivilized of them.

“At least they go down easy,” Perry commented, finishing off the last one. Ri’z did not bother answering, already busy picking their pockets. “Do you have to?” In an uncharacteristic display of foresight, Perry felt like she was going to say this many, many more times.

The khajiit smirked at her. “Khajiit needs their coin more than they do.”

Peregrina agreed he had a point.

They pressed on towards the site of the explosion, Perry trying -and failing- to imitate the Khajiit’s silent walking.

* * *

_Not far from said explosion site_

Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, ex-Knight Commander of Kirkwall, needed to pee. He had been in the field for far too many hours and simply had _not_ found the time to discreetly escape his responsibilities to relieve himself.

“Private Henrikke, tell the men to hold their positions. I must get word of the demons’ advance to Leliana.”

Private Henrikke, an obedient, moustached, broad-shouldered man, saluted. “Yes sir! I’ll send a scout at once, sir.”

Cullen clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to smack the imbecile. “I will get word to her _personally_. We can’t risk the scout getting killed on the way.” And he could even take a small detour to take a leak, none the wiser. A perfect plan.

“Yes, sir! At your command, sir!” Henrikke saluted again, prompting Cullen to briefly wonder why the man had never been promoted. He had always been of the opinion that obedience should be rewarded.

He left the makeshift barricade quickly, going towards the small wood that separated them from the nearest ‘real’ defensive position (read: one with an actual building). Truth be told, he had no intention getting word of anything to Leliana, and so for several reasons.

One: she was terrifying.

Two: the demons had not actually advanced that much since his last report.

Three: even if they had, she would probably already know anyway.

Four: she was terrifying.

As soon as he was out of sight of his men, behind the tree line, he unbuckled his armour, doing his business with a deep sigh of relief and a grateful prayer to the Maker. He closed his eyes in bliss: there was no better feeling in all of Thedas, he was sure of it.

“Err… Commander?” A voice pulled him out of his primal nirvana, and he turned around to see one of his soldiers standing there dumbly. Blushing like a virgin on her wedding night, he tucked himself back in his breeches awkwardly and cleared his throat, trying desperately to regain some semblance of authority.

“Soldier?”

“Err, hum, right… Yes. Right… huh” Clearly, that particular soldier was broken.

Cullen used his commanding voice, and, for once, it actually worked. If he was not so embarrassed, he would have been a little proud. “Soldier, report!”

“Yes, err, right. Report. There’s a cat.” The soldier’s mouth opened and closed helplessly a few times.

“A cat?”

“It’s got legs and everything!”

“A cat. With legs.” Far more fickle than any woman, Cullen had gone from embarrassment to confusion to anger. This was why he had been interrupted?

“And a bow! There’s a big woman too! They slaughtered my whole unit!” Suddenly, it all made sense. Under the stress of battle, and possibly demonic influence, the man’s mind had snapped. “I barely escaped with my life,” the soldier continued, frantic.

Cullen put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get you some help.” The soldier looked up at him gratefully. “And not a word to the others, we don’t want to cause a panic.”

“Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later, the whole army was whispering about a murderous man-cat-demon roaming the slopes of the Frostbacks.

* * *

_Forward Camp (aka: another bridge?! Why? Why do they need so many bridges?)_

It took Manwe the entire trip to the forward camp to accept that she was not on Nirn. Well, it took her about three minutes to accept that, and then the rest of the way to deal with the fact that she could not _possibly_ be in the Outer Realms either.

There was no divine presence here, no Princes lurking about playing with mortals’ lives for kicks and giggles, no Aetherius bathing her in its light. The sun was cold overhead, the air empty -she was on the Outside. The magic was still there, thank the Divines, but farther away, demanding a little more effort, a little more concentration to reach.

She was still brooding as they arrived to camp, where whispers of a bow-wielding cat-man reached them. Well, it reached the natives, anyway, because Manwe could not be bothered to cast her translation spell for _chatter_ _._ In fact, the small human had been asking her questions the whole way there, and she had just nodded and grunted in response, all the while not having any idea what he was saying.

Now that she thought about it, he was beginning to look quite vexed, for some reason.

In front of them, the redhead she had met a few hours earlier was arguing with another human. He wore a long dress with the funniest hat she had seen since her “holiday” in Colovia. He also seemed furious at her. Her translation spell kicked in just in time for her to hear the words ‘abomination’, ‘demon’, and ‘execution’.

Before she could smite the fool, Cassandra stepped in front of her, arguing about succession rules with the other two humans. Manwe stopped listening, concentrating instead on her hand, and the green light playing upon it. She had already set up a small number of protections, lighter than the previous ones, but strong enough that none of this foreign magic would mix with her own at inopportune moments. Now, she simply needed to test her wards.

Conveniently for her and for the plot, the Tear in the sky flared up dramatically, as did the light on her hand. The light show was still impressive, she supposed, but rendered completely painless by her spellwork.

The three humans had stopped arguing and had turned towards her. Manwe wiggled two fingers discreetly, casting her spell once more.

“How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asked.

Manwe looked at her blankly and sighed. Was the answer truly not obvious, even to mortals? “Your first concern should be closing this hole in reality, which, lucky for you, I might decide to help with, and your second should be finding whoever was responsible for it in the first place. I have seen no mages apart from this one -she gestured to Solas-, and this is clearly a magical matter. Get the wizards involved. As for your line of succession, I can only note your lack of foresight in failing to plan for the death of your ruler; you should have had contingencies in place, temporary leaders that can wield full powers without being elected. Barring that, I suggest handing the reins over to whatever sane military leader you can find, at least until reality is fixed.”

Her advice was met with confused looks. If this had been an exam paper, it would have been handed back to her with the words ‘OFF TOPIC’ written in red underlined.

“I meant, should we take the mountain path or go through the valley with the army?” Cassandra asked after a moment of silence.

Manwe glared at her, not nearly self-conscious enough to feel embarrassed. “How should I know? I know neither the terrain, nor the enemies you are now facing, nor the strength of your armies. Even if I did, I am in no way qualified to make military decisions.” Not that she hadn’t had her eye on the position of Royal Battlemage before the Warp in the West. Oh, well. Missed opportunities and all that.

“You should take the mountain path,” the redhead suggested at once, which only started the argument all over again.

Manwe cast a levitation spell on herself and walked away from the natives, upwards towards the mountain top, towards the Tear. Their voices were shrill, their manner disrespectful, and she simply did not wish to spend any more time in their presence. Someone cried after her, but her translation spell had already waned and she did not understand -not that she cared to anyway.

In the forward camp, Chancellor Roderick fainted.

Barely an hour later (her magicka was starting to really lower; Alteration had never been her strong suit), Manwe arrived at the scene of the crime, so to speak. The Hole itself was bigger than she had surmised from afar, wild and dangerous magic lashing out all around it.

Despite her versed interest in anything magical (and dangerous. She was a Dunmer, after all), she tore herself away from the broken reality before her and went in search of Ri’z.

* * *

_At more or less the same time, not far away_

Perry knocked a soldier on the head, sending him rolling in the snow. She had tried talking to them, like she had been taught in the Legion. They had responded with arrows and war cries, so, like she had been taught in the Legion, she had slaughtered the lot of them. Even bandits and barbarians acted, well, less barbarous than these people, who seemed to have more in common with the bloody Falmer than actual, reasonable, civilized human beings. Ri’z cheered her on from the sidelines, picking off the enemy archers and the occasional knight. She appreciated that he was not trying to steal her kills; it was bad manners, even for mercenaries and thieves. She did not know if Ri’zaadzin was the former or the latter, but there were more pressing questions to deal with. First of, how many of these idiots was she going to have to put down before they simply stopped attacking?

Her question was answered almost immediately, when the rest of them fled in unholy terror.

She turned towards the Khajiit, her sword dripping with blood. “Are we there yet?” She could not help but ask. He had somewhat become her guide in this inhospitable land (not that Skyrim was any better, of course).

“I hear sounds of shouting and dying. We are approaching the end of our journey.”

They kept moving towards the Green Light, their best chance at getting home. Ri’z had explained what had happened, but it had been during a rant about magical fluxes and the Outer Realms and she had tuned out at the first mention of ‘magic’. Soldiers had swords, mages had magic. As far as she was concerned, there was really no need to involve her in any of this mystical bullshit -as long as she got home at the end of the day.

And by home, of course, she meant a tavern with a free chair, a cold beer and a large fire.

They found Manwe under the Green Light, the corpses of magic beasts littering the ground around her. She scowled at them when they reached her.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. These things -she pointed to the corpses- are relentless.”

“We’ve encountered a few on the way. There are humans around, too.”

“ _Were_ humans,” Perry interjected, still pissed at the one who had managed to dent her armour. Repairs weren’t cheap.

“I’ve met some of them,” Manwe said. They all exchanged a similar disgusted glance. Barbarians.

“Well. Let’s get back, then,” Perry said, already dreaming of warm fires and horker stew. If Skyrim had one redeeming feature, it was horker stew. Well, that and mammoth steak, of course.

Mistress Falven frowned. “Right. I don’t think this is going to be as easy as it sounds.”

“Ah, yes. I see. This makes sense,” said Ri’z after a moment of contemplation.

It did not make sense to Perry, not even a little, so she simply kept watch while the other two discussed their plan of action.

As it turned out, it was not necessary, because as soon as a few creatures stepped out of the Green Light-Hole-Thing that hurt her eyes, Mistress Falven rose her arm and they died in fiery agony as they reached the ground.

Perry vowed never to set foot in Morrowind.

Barely a minute later, Manwe was explaining their plan. This time, Perry forced herself to listen, because her dinner was at stake. “In layman’s terms, we’re going to do a summoning ritual, except in reverse: we’re going to banish ourselves out of here. That will send us back to Nirn.” She paused. “Probably. I’ll need a few days to work out the details and collect a few ingredients, but we should be back in Skyrim before the end of the week.” She winked at Perry. “Oh, and we’re going to need a human sacrifice.”

Perry blanched.

“There should still be some of them in the woods,” Ri’z said, not a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Let’s find ourselves a tavern, shall we?” Manwe said. “I’ll need a place to work.”

They left the ruins behind them, as well as the Green Light. As they were trudging through the snow (more accurately, Perry was trudging through the snow. Ri’z was barely leaving prints behind and Manwe was lazily levitating three inches off the ground), a cry reached them.

In front of them, swarming the valley, dozens upon dozen of native soldiers were running towards them, swords glinting in the green glow of the Hole in Reality.


	4. In which Perry saves the world

Let us resume our tale: our three heroes are standing in white snow, preparing to defend their lives against a small army of screaming Thedosians.

The three Tamrielians watched as more and more screaming barbarians appeared over the tree line.

“Again?” Manwe complained. “Don’t these people have anything better to do?”

Ri’z did not say anything and pirouetted up in a tree, an arrow already knocked in his bow.

“Shit.” Perry said, summing up the situation quite nicely.

“STOP!” A voice bellowed from amongst the mass of soldiers. They stopped in disorganized fashion, and Manwe and Perry found common ground in disapproving of their discipline. Whoever was in charge of that army needed to be tried and hanged, that was for sure. As if to prove them right, Cassandra marched forward, emerging from the soldier’s uneven ranks.

She was flanked by the redhead whose name Manwe had already forgotten, and a tall man with a dead bear on his shoulders. Decidedly, human fashion eluded Manwe, although from Perry’s scoff, it seemed to also elude the man.

Behind them, sort-of-not-an-elf and small-human were trying to catch up.

“Manwe!” Cassandra called.

Both Ri’z and Perry bristled at this. Had this woman been raised with pigs? Did she not know even the most basic of rules? Do not be familiar with Dunmer wizards if you do not want to be set on fire.

Manwe simply sighed before addressing her two unfortunate companions. “They aren’t the most civilized.” She pointed at the dark haired woman who was wielding a shield and a scowl. “This one is called Cassandra. I don’t remember the others, although the one with red hair seems to be the least stupid.”

They watched as the natives approached, Ri’z still sitting on a high branch in the closest tree. When she finally reached them, Cassandra was red in the face from her yelling. Manwe cast her spell again.

“Is there a problem?” She asked, in that cold politeness that tends to precede someone being set on fire.

Cassandra was about to say something when she noticed Perry. “You’re human, thank the Maker!”

“I’m an Imperial,” Perry said with a scowl, bristling at the idea that these _barbarians_ had anything in common with her. Beside her, Manwe nodded appreciatively at the sheer scorn she had managed to put into one word.

The readhead spoke instead, showing some understanding of common courtesy. “I apologize for any slights we might-” She interrupted herself when Ri’z jumped off his branch, landing just between Perry and Manwe. They watched her freeze, frown, swallow, roll her eyes, sigh and then turn to the man clothed in dead bear. “Is this the _man-cat-demon_ you mentioned?”

Ri’z hissed, Manwe pinched the bridge of her nose, and Perry, less subtle, exclaimed “That’s rude!”

“Yes, thank you, Peregrina,” sighed Manwe, before turning to the savages. “It is, indeed, rude. Please do apologize.” The implicit threat made Perry and Ri’z take a step away from her.

Proving that she was the least stupid of them, the red-head apologized immediately and in quite flowery language. The man did not.

Manwe stopped her halfway through. “Enough. What do you want?” Her patience, already much tested, was slowly crumbling. The natives exchanged nervous looks, clearly unsure what to say. Manwe waited, watching the last shreds of her patience gently floating away. “Well. Before you try to figure it you, why don’t you point me towards the nearest tavern?”

The bear skin-covered man and Cassandra answered at the same time. “Back where we came from.” “Up the hill, follow the main road back to the village.” They glared at each other.

Manwe turned to her two companions. “Shall we?”

Perry was already a step ahead, walking towards the herd of natives that separated her from the blessed inn, images of mead and stew urging her onwards. Manwe and Ri’z followed, and in the next moment, Cassandra and the rest of the small party did so too.

Manwe stopped. “Oh no, feel free to stay here. We would not want to stop you from doing… whatever it was you were doing.”

This seemed to stump them long enough for Manwe and Ri’z to walk away, trying to catch up to their Imperial bodyguard -who had very much given up on guarding anything but her stomach.

“Wait!”

Manwe sighed and ignored the call. Ri’z turned around. Curiosity was going to kill that cat, one day.

“You can’t just leave.”

“You have to save us!”

“We need to close the Breach!”

Before Manwe could turn around and argue that she did not _have_ to do anything, one of the soldiers let out a blood-curdling scream and fainted. Perry, who was just passing him on her way to the providential tavern, turned around and raised her hands in a confused gesture.

“But I didn’t do anything.”

Ri’z leaned over to Manwe. “This one believes the human is from one of the units we... toyed with earlier.”

The elf sighed. “Of course.”

The khajiit’s grin was positively carnivorous, whatever that meant.

Perry waited for them to catch up, an eye on the soldiers who were quietly and slowly backing away from her.

“He just… went down,” she tried to explain.

Manwe sniggered and they looked down at the unconscious body. “Do you think I can use it as the sacrifice?”

Perry glanced at the soldier with sympathy.

“You have to help!” Cassandra’s cry brought them back to their present predicament, which was unfortunately comprised of uncouth natives and shattered realities.

Manwe raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I do not _have_ to do anything.”

The bald not-actually-an-elf interjected. “The mark on your hand contains magical energy. From my studies on the Veil, I believe that if it does not go back to the Fade, it will grow until it eventually kills you.”

Manwe stared at him, her red eyes inscrutable. “Very well,” she said at last, “I will aid you. Lead the way back to the Tear, will you?”

This change of heart was welcomed with a cheer of relief from the natives, whose faces lit up with hope. If only they had any idea what was in store for them.

“We still need to find whoever had been killing our units,” Commander Rutherford remarked.

“Oh, that was me,” Perry said at once, in an impressive lapse of judgement. These four little words sent the army commander into a sort of meltdown, which, Perry had to say, was frankly unprofessional. Especially in front of the troops. Her general would never have dared disrespect the honour of his service in such a way. She said so to Cassandra, which did nothing to help the situation.

Taking advantage of the diversion, Ri’z leaned towards Manwe. “The bald one was lying, yes?”

She sniffed disdainfully. “Of course. The question is why.”

“This one wonders, is asking too many questions the reason why you were in jail for so long?”

She glared at him, but did not answer. As it turned out, constantly casting levitation, fine tuning wards and hours of hiking made finding witty comebacks slightly harder. That he was right was also not helping.

* * *

And so they went back to the green split in reality, followed by a sizeable army of barbarians. Luckily, they seemed to keep their distances; neither Manwe nor Ri’z were keen on the smell, and Perry was still side-eyeing these strange troops who seemed to think discipline optional and tended to simply faint in fear like Breton maidens.

The area, an old ruin, possibly of religious/sepulchral origin (but really, when were they not?) was covered with blood-splattered snow, and when they approached, loud and proud, the hole in reality spawned more of its strange misshapen creatures.

Before Manwe could finish yawning, Cassandra yelled something and then mass of native soldiers rushed to combat, leaving our three adventurers standing motionlessly halfway down the slope.

A moment passed as they watched a group of what seemed to be scouts get trampled by another one of these big purple horned electric things. They may not have had training or good armour, but at least they had enthusiasm. Maybe their gods (what this Maker they invoked in battle cries one of them?) looked favourably upon those who threw themselves in battle without thinking. Religions had been build upon less, after all.

“Should we, you know, hum, help?” Perry got two confused looks from Manwe and Ri’z.

“No,” Manwe said.

“This one thinks we should go find something to eat,” Ri’z said, surveying the impromptu battlefield with a bored eye.

A silence followed, troubled only by the cries of agony coming for the soldiers below.

“This feels a little… wrong.”

Manwe rolled her eyes. “Great. The hired muscle is developing a conscience.”

Perry protested a little, not daring to openly contradict the Dunmer mage -they came with fireballs attached.

The battle did not seem to die down. Every time the barbarians seemed to gain the advantage, the split in reality sprouted more of its beasts. From a purely academical standpoint, it was fascinating. Manwe wondered if it could go on indefinitely. It seemed so very unlike an Oblivion Gate, when the invading force is just that: an invading force, with structure and purpose. Here, the monsters simply seemed to throw themselves in this reality, no more sentient than angry cliffracers.

At least cliffracers were all but extinct, praise be to Saint Jiub.

The weird bald elf ran up the slope, gesturing wildly at them.

“What’s he doing?”

“No idea.”

Solas reached them, red in the face with effort and kept speaking in what was probably meant to be a paternal and calming voice.

“Do you think you should maybe use your spell again?” Perry asked cautiously as the oddly shaped character gesticulated, magic at his fingertips.

“I am _considering_ it.” Manwe narrowed her eyes at the elf-adjacent man. He seemed quite distressed, which amused her.

“He’s trying to say something about the green light.” Perry tried to be helpful.

“I figured.”

“Again, shouldn’t we, you know, help?”

Manwe paused to stare at nothing in particular for a second and then smiled. “If you wish to help so much, why don’t you?” She grabbed Perry’s arm in a surprising display of speed and a great light, painful and bright, came upon them both.

When Mistress Falven drew back her hand, the greenish light was seen dancing on Peregrina Maximus’s palm.

Solas watched with an expression torn between fury, shock, and disgust, that made him look like he had tasted raw and unseasoned hackle-lo leaf. Neither Perry nor Ri’z noticed, too busy marvelling at the mark on Perry’s hand., but Manwe did, and her smile grew. She had always liked a good intrigue.

“Well, come on,” Manwe intimated, shaking them both out of their contemplation. She gestured as sarcastically as one could towards the tear in the sky and the army dying below. “Go help.”

Perry took the order like a soldier: her feet, their will seemingly independent from hers, carried her all the way to the battlefield, where she then looked around helplessly.

_Fortunately_ , Solas the odd elf was there to help, and he directed her hand towards the Hole. A flash of light and pain overcame her, and the world turned to darkness.

* * *

A few minutes later, as the noise died down, every important character in this story gathered around Peregrina Maximus’ unconscious form.

“I don’t understand,” the man in the bear pelt said.

Ri’z snorted. “You seem as if you say this often.”

“How did you do that?” the odd elf demanded more than asked, staring at Manwe, a look in his eyes that clearly said that if he thought he could torture it out of her, he would. She knew it well enough, having been on its receiving end more times than she care to admit (which was a lot).

She stared back, unflappable. “Brilliantly.”

The redhead, seeing the situation slowly worsen, intervened with the diplomacy of a politician. Or a thief, though there was little difference in the Fourth Era (or any Era, for that matter).

“I am sure you can understand how we are confused. You bore the mark earlier, not your companion.”

“I did. And then I decided it was time for a change. Red is more my colour, as I am sure you can understand.”

“But why didn’t you give it to one of us?” Cassandra cried out, voicing what every native was thinking.

“One of you? After you clearly failed to prevent this from happening in the first place?”

“You believe she is a good choice, then?”

Manwe shrugged. “Not particularly, but at least, this has the potential of being extremely entertaining.”

“Entertaining? There is a crisis at hand!” “People are dying!” Bear-pelt man and Cassandra exclaimed in concert.

Manwe stared at them blankly. “Yes, I can see that. I don’t particularly care, either. The question is,” she turned towards Peregrina’s unconscious form, an ominous smile tugging at her ashen lips. “will she?”

Just in time to prevent any dramatic tension from rising, Perry started to snore.

“Is she… snoring?”

“You have ears, no?” Ri’z replied, still a little miffed at being called a man-cat-demon by the man. Manwe prodded the sleeping Imperial with her boot.

“Wake up.”

“This is no use,” Ri’z interjected. “Human soldiers can sleep through anything, even the sound of a thief accidentally dropping a couple of pots and pans next to them.”

“Accidentally?”

Ri’z sighed and flexed the claws of his left paw thoughtfully. “Everyone makes mistakes, even this one.”

“How very wise,” Manwe said before conjuring a bucketful of iced water over Perry’s peaceful face.

There was some spluttering and gargling, and then Perry was awake. “Whas goin on?”

“Congratulations,” Manwe said, leaning over her. “You closed a gap in the fabric of reality and saved this entire world. How does it feel to be a hero?”

“Wha?”

Manwe straightened herself and addressed the redhead, having firmly pegged her as ‘the clever one’. “Now. Where is that tavern you promised us?”

In the haze of exhaustion, Perry was somewhat glad to see that, despite being a possibly necromantic insane mage who’d just saddled her with some odd magic horseshit, Mistress Falven had her priorities in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric has no lines in this chapter, because he's too busy getting material for his next book.


End file.
